Avenging Angel
by RandomFandomIdiots
Summary: After Sherlock's "death", Mycroft decides to show a bit of sentiment (not that he'd admit it) and take matters into his own, very capable, hands. [GingerBeer] presents something that is not crack, for once. A strictly canon bashfic for Kitty Riley (or Reilly) from Reichenbach Fall. Spoilers for all of Sherlock because I'm over-the-top like that.
1. Chapter 1

"_Family is all we have left in the end, Mycroft Holmes."_

Mrs. Hudson

* * *

Chapter 1

Mycroft Holmes sat idly in the corner of the large spacious room, lost in thought. He replayed it in his mind— how his younger brother had stepped off that roof, how that idiotic coat of his had billowed as he plummeted to earth, how everything had happened exactly to plan. Lazarus. Their final resort. A fake death to vanish off the face of the Earth, away from all publicity, good or bad. He vaguely wondered where Sherlock was now. No matter. He could take care of himself now. Mycroft leaned backward in his black leather armchair, drifting back into memories, remembering years long past, when two young boys in pirate hats had played beside a clear lake as a little girl ran amongst them, watched over by another, older boy…

But he hadn't been enough, had never been enough to prevent what happened.

And he was back in the Diogenes Club, his phone softly vibrating in his pocket. He dug it out. _NUMBER BLOCKED_. Oh, of course Sherlock would _call _him. He would have predicted his older brother's patterns, knew that the most powerful man in Britain would be sitting in his favorite armchair. And of _course_ he knew that talking was a major offense in the Diogenes club. Mycroft sighed. He ignored the call and instead opened his text conversation.

MH: What do you want?

_SH: Hello, Brother Mine. How are you? -SH_

MH: Spit it out.

_SH: Hm? __What __are you talking about? -SH_

MH: You only sweet-talk me when you want something.

MH: That plus how quickly you sent those texts proves you have an ulterior motive, brother dear.

MH: Now what do you want?

He could almost hear Sherlock's sigh. He would have smiled, but Mycroft Holmes did not smile.

MH: I believe I already repaid you for the whole Irene Adler business by letting you tour Baskerville.

_SH: Yes. But before all that, you kidnapped my flatmate. If that's not enough, I'm currently hunting down Moriarty's network for you, and, in addition, I did your "legwork" for you on the matter of the missile plans. -SH_

MH: And then proceeded to give them to a consulting criminal who threw them in a pool. But alright, I'll humor you today, Sherlock. What do you want?

_SH: Some unfinished business, should I say? -SH_

MH: And I assume you're calling on old favors because you're long since out of the country?

Mycroft's phone vibrated in answer, and the screen changed to show a spinning gear. Downloading file… He sighed. Even the British government could count on slow phone service.

_SH: I've sent you a little something. Might help relieve the boredom from the vacuum created by my absence. Of course you could find the majority of the information in this file yourself, but I'll make this easy for you. -SH_

_SH: It shouldn't require too much "legwork", but you never know. -SH_

The oldest Holmes brother scrolled through the file. He almost smiled. Revenge— _rache _in German; it was nice how things knit together. He leaned back and steepled his fingers, already beginning to engineer the exquisite torment of one Kitty Riley.

* * *

The view through the security camera showed Kitty Riley, top reporter for The Sun, sitting back in her new desk chair at her sleek adjustable desk. She smirked. Her thoughts were easily read by the pinstripe-suited man watching her through his computer. That exposée had done two good things: uncover the dangerous fake that was Sherlock Holmes, and catapult her to this deserved position near the top of The Sun's ranks. She even had her own secretary!

Mycroft sighed. Was it just him, or were people getting less and less intelligent year after year?

Kitty bustled around her brand-new office, preparing for her special interview. This meeting called for professionalism. She puckered her lips in her hand mirror, applying pink lipstick before she grabbed her Dictaphone and checked if it was working properly. It let out a crackle. A low, smooth rumble of a voice filled the office.

"Hello, Miss Riley. Remember me?"

Kitty froze. The recording device clattered to the floor. Hesitantly, she reached for the play button. This time, she heard only static. Shrugging, she scooped up her Dictaphone and left without a backward glance.

Mycroft opened a group text.

MH: Avenging Angel Phase One into position.

* * *

Most people who knew him thought Mycroft had a heart of ice, or no heart at all. Mycroft recalled Moriarty's nickname for him, remembered John's furious tirade a few days after The Fall: The Iceman, a heartless bastard, a machine with no feeling.

That wasn't quite true.

Of course, he _had_ renounced the weakness that was sentiment after his parents' feud— no, after his father's affair, so casually revealed by an innocent Sherlock. Even when they reconciled, when his mother quit her job to care for her family, that had not stopped the cold that was spreading through their oldest son's heart. But he still played with Sherlock, still was just a boy.

Then Eurus had happened.

His life was divided into Before Eurus and After Eurus, just like John's was divided into Pre-Sherlock and Post-Sherlock. But this wasn't as mundane as finding a new best friend. No, no, no.

His little sister had shattered any vestige of peace left to them by drowning Sherlock's best friend and burning their house down, purely out of vindictive jealousy. She was the East Wind— the terrifying force that laid waste to all in its path, seeking out the unworthy and plucking them from the Earth.

Sherlock had changed forever from that happy, talkative little boy who played Deductions with his older brother. He had become more like Eurus, retreated into himself, erased all memory of his little sister from his brain.

Mycroft had changed too. He had grown up too fast, had encased himself in a shell of ice, had vowed that no one would ever hurt him or his brother ever again.

In his government office, Mycroft bit back a grim chuckle. And look how that had worked out.

But he still had a heart, and he still cared about his family. And he was ready to play the avenging angel to anyone— _anyone_— who hurt his little brother.

The Dictaphone trick had been cheap, a simple sleight of hand and a speaker embedded in a wall. However, it did demonstrate Kitty's ability to "Make Believe", as stated in the poster on her flat wall, the one behind which Mycroft had had his people hide a tiny camera.

He switched to the CCTV feed, adjusting the cameras to watch Kitty's flouncing path along the pavement. From her scheduler he knew she was heading towards an important interview with the Prime Minister. Not anymore, if he had anything to do with it. And of course he would; he was practically the British government, after all. It was convenient that she always walked on the right side of the road, it made things much more streamlined for him. And… _now_.

A tall man strode past her, nudging her off the pavement just as a black cab roared past, splattering her with mud.

Most people who knew him formed the opinion that Mycroft did not giggle. Of course, that was a perfectly reasonable inference, based on his clothes and the way he carried himself. But they should have realized their mistake from Sherlock. You wouldn't expect a tall, rude, swishy-coated alien to giggle either. See him and John together and that opinion soars out the window. Mycroft did not giggle as much as his brother, but seeing the obnoxious journalist standing in the street, covered with mud and wearing such a petulant face at having her interview ruined, his breathing altered in such a way as to greatly increase the chances that others would assume it was laughter, before he chastised himself for acting _so_ out of character.

His phone buzzed. He scowled briefly. Sherlock knew he preferred calling to texting when not in the Diogenes Club.

_SH: Having fun yet? -SH_

MH: I don't have fun.

_SH: Oh, yes, you do. -SH_

He smiled slightly. The process of doing so, to express happiness, was becoming easier. He'd never admit it to Sherlock, of course, but this _was_ fun.

* * *

Mycroft watched Kitty's reaction as she found the note on the inside of her door.

You.

It was written on bright sunshine yellow cardstock. Kitty sighed, half laughing, and tried to remove it. It wouldn't come off, and she gave up, tromping toward her bathroom.

Repel.

Me.

Two more perfect squares of yellow paper, taped to her bathroom wall. _That_ got her attention. She ripped them off, ignoring the large tear that that created in her paint. There was another note on the back of each card.

Beware those you have wronged.

Beware those avenging angels.

Mycroft watched as she tossed the papers in the rubbish bin, noted that her hands were shaking ever so slightly.

* * *

When John Watson first saw Mycroft he thought he was a criminal. He thought Sherlock's brother was Moriarty, perhaps, after he had heard the name but before Sherlock had formally introduced them. While that wasn't true, obviously, Mycroft was surprisingly good at forging.

He didn't usually employ this skill. It fell under "legwork". But this was his brother, and he was committed to the project he had named "Avenging Angel", the one Sherlock thought he was working on for boredom relief. Revenge, he was finding, could be very sweet. And it didn't wreak havoc with his diet.

A buzzing noise sounded. Mycroft glanced at his phone.

_SH: Add "IOU". That'll throw her off. -SH_

_SH: Ah, and the fact that Richard Brook disappeared after I jumped. -SH_

MH: Well, of course I know that.

_SH: Just as a reminder. -SH_

_SH: And also— "Big Brother is Watching". -SH_

Mycroft smirked ever so slightly, something he was starting to do more often, despite the fear that he was becoming too much like his brother, and reached for his pen.

**A/N: I have way too many fandoms. And characters I hate. Whoops. **

**I swear this sounded better in my head. Sorry for the OOC. —[GingerBeer]**


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

John Watson thought that Mycroft usually abducted people in his black cars when he wanted to talk to them. He also believed that Mycroft didn't usually threaten the other party during his meetings, and that his umbrella was just for show. Besides the quite alarming fact that he was beginning to pick up on Sherlock's habit of stating John's opinion first, Mycroft had a few issues with these assumptions.

First off, he didn't _abduct_ people, they came in the car _willingly_. The fact that he ensured there would be no CCTV footage of that process was a mere technicality.

Second, while he often used this process as an assessment upon first meeting a person, it was too much of a hassle for frequent use, and he had long ago elected to conduct most meetings the way normal people did, as John should have deduced from their meeting in Speedy's. Although he _had_ only stooped _that_ low because it involved his little brother.

Third, John's meeting with him had been a special case. Mycroft had had no ulterior motive other than to test whether John would make a worthy flatmate. The bribe, he had known perfectly well, had been nearly guaranteed to fail. He usually employed less crude methods, but he was not above gaining extra experience in using his umbrella. And the umbrella? Besides the strange satisfaction caused by bashing someone on the shoulder with an appliance consisting of folding nylon canopy supported by metal ribs, mounted on a wooden pole and designed to protect a person against rain, or poking them in the ribs with the tip of said appliance, it hid an eighty-centimeter long piece of sharpened steel that Mycroft was very proficient in using. The sword in turn disguised a device, concealed in the intricately carved bamboo handle, that could eject twenty grams of lead at over 700 meters per second. In short, an umbrella hiding a sword hiding a gun. That had been a very nice tailor shop.

John Watson was often wrong, but he helped Sherlock, and Mycroft respected that even if it didn't show.

Now, back to the task at hand. This was going to be markedly different from his usual tactics. Mycroft had chosen to completely schedule this one himself, instead of having his underlings do it, as he had done for John as well. This was personal, though he would never admit that.

He monitored the CCTV feeds and watched as Kitty Riley made her vapid, obnoxious way down the streets of London, headed toward another "important" interview. Mycroft pressed a button on his mobile, and the telephone in a bright red phone booth rang just as the annoying journalist passed. John, for once, was right, this wasn't necessary, but Mycroft couldn't deny that he had a flair for the dramatic. Just like his brother.

Kitty appeared to be much more foolish— or arrogant— than Mycroft's previous targets, as she confidently strode into the booth and picked up the phone. Mycroft frowned. The notes hadn't affected her as he'd hoped then. Or, more likely, she was simply stupid. He held his mobile phone to his ear and braced himself for the high-pitched wavery thing that was her voice.

"Hello?" Kitty's voice was crackly over the telephone, but Mycroft could clearly detect a tendril of fear meandering its way through her efforts to sound breezy and professional. Clearly not _that_ stupid then.

"Miss Riley." He saw her jump. "There is a CCTV camera on the building behind you. It is the only camera currently monitoring this area. Can you see it, or will I have to explain to you what I am talking about and what it looks like?"

Through the feed from that camera, Mycroft saw her turn her cherry blonde head to look. "Good. Now watch it closely. Keep your eyes fixed on it." The view on his screen slowly revolved as the camera turned, until the phone booth was out of sight.

Mycroft muted his phone and opened the text conversation he had with the woman John knew as Anthea.

MH: What are you calling yourself today?  
_Evie: Hmm, how about Theia?_

MH: Pull up to the telephone booth. The first one.

Unmuting his phone, he spoke into it. "Kindly step into the car, Miss Riley. I prefer not to get my or my associates' hands dirty, but know that we can hurt you. Is your current situation quite clear to you or shall I have to have my agent exit the car and physically threaten you?" He permitted a note of sarcasm to seep into his voice. "I'm sure that would make for quite an exciting article— if you survive." He pressed the end call button before opening the chat.

MH: Has Miss Riley, the woman with the reddish hair and wearing the dark magenta blazer she feels is stylish, stepped into the car?

_Theia: No._

Mycroft sighed. He hated it when they disobeyed him. He called the phone booth again.

"Would you care to reconsider your options? I have nothing against using a show of force, but I sense that you would not like it. _Get in the car_, Miss Riley." He hung up again.

MH: Has Miss Riley, the woman with the reddish hair and wearing the dark magenta blazer she feels is stylish, stepped into the car?

_Theia: Yes._

MH: Good. Have the driver drive her to the abandoned warehouse. Make as little conversation as you can; I don't want her to have her head smashed through a car window before I get a chance to talk to her.

_Theia: Will do, sir. _

MH: And take a roundabout route. Make sure she has no idea where she's going. That will probably be relatively easy.

_Theia: Will do, sir. _

Mycroft exited his office, tapping his umbrella on the ground, and boarded a waiting black car.

"The abandoned warehouse, please."

* * *

Mycroft stood idly in the exact center of the large room, leaning languidly on his umbrella. A buzz from his pocket informed him that Kitty and Theia had arrived, and he inclined his head toward the only entrance. The top reporter walked in. Mycroft immediately scanned down every inch of her. Every detail logged itself in his head, each one rearranging and moving about to fit the pattern. There was a reason why Sherlock almost always lost to him in Deductions.

_Slight imprint on the right wrist: Right-handed. Still writing her articles; likely no one at the paper bothers to read them or she'd have been fired long ago. _

_Eyes slightly squinting: Ah, so she's been staring closely at her computer screen for long periods of time; from the grey smudge on the outside of her right hand— graphite, looks around 2B, from smudging pencil as she erased, outlines of the words are still faintly visible— she writes her drafts on paper, so she shouldn't be doing too much typing for writing; most likely emailing more frequently recently… _

_Hair elaborately styled: prepared for something important; _

_But slightly leaning toward the left: she did it herself;_

_A bit messy, she cares but not too much… _

_Lips painted a bright magenta, meant to resonate with her darker blazer… _

_Matching nails, but slightly messy on the right hand: again, right-handed, did it herself;_

_Alarmingly long nails, but slightly crooked: fake, applied hurriedly, wants to make an impression so it's something important that I've interrupted… good… _

_Long black skirt with high stockings; plus she's wearing a light magenta (What _is _it with this color? "A Study In Magenta"?) dress shirt, high collar: Not a lover, then. Dictaphone tucked into inside left pocket of blazer; clearly trying to be discreet, thinking she's learned, nope, probably wouldn't even fool the ignorant unobservant goldfish she would usually interview… _

_And her makeup… Fake eyelashes, long but not very long, 1.5 centimeters about; from her nails and hair she can't afford to waste money on beauty so most likely a pack of eyelashes; she's used the medium ones, again not a lover but still wants to impress… Ah, and her makeup's messy, only applied it a few times before, clearly still single then, never had a significant other— Moriarty doesn't count, obviously… _

_Likely something for work then. Based on her recent history, probably an exclusive interview opportunity… That plus the fact that she's been emailing: probably arranging the meeting, and, oh, my mistake, ruining _that _for her. Balance of probability says that it's someone related to my brother's indictment; the most likely candidate within her range of influence is the Chief Superintendent of Scotland Yard. _

The older Holmes smiled coldly. Five seconds. For once his brother was right. He _was _getting slow.

"Hello, Miss Riley. I would ask you to take a seat, but…" He glanced around in faux surprise. "I appear to have neglected to bring one." Mycroft took a slow, relaxed step forward, twirling his umbrella on the fingers of his left hand. "My _very_ sincere apologies for ruining the exclusive interview you had planned." She startled, which pleased him. Ah, but this was poker; he shouldn't show his cards too quickly, shouldn't scare her off. The information about the Chief Superintendent could be used later. "Could I offer a little something to make up for that? An _interview_ maybe? Perhaps… some _unheard-of details_ about a _fraud_ who _took his own life_…?"

He could see the reporter's ears perk up from the other side of the room, could read the amazingly hasty conclusion she came to so shockingly sluggishly like the open pages of a book, every snail-like connection crystal clear to him. He tsked under his breath. Never theorize without data. Perhaps she _was_ as stupid as he feared; that would eliminate a civilized debate as an option. Kitty reached into her blazer, taking out a tissue in a clumsy, obvious attempt at "discreetly" turning on her Dictaphone.

The ensuing conversation was so dull, Mycroft nearly fell asleep. The reporter was amazingly gullible, though of course had already been obvious from the entirety of the Richard Brook affair. She swallowed every single thing Mycroft told her. He had an abundance of information: how the judges in the Old Bailey trial were threatened, how the break-ins actually happened, how all the crimes were designed… She didn't suspect a thing. He even used the spider analogy Sherlock was so fond of. But it was time to end this.

"Ah, yes, the name. Richard Brook. An interesting piece of trivia— in German it's _Reichenbach_. Clever choice of fake name, don't you think?" He saw her frown. "But the suicide. Shooting yourself in the mouth— bit dull, contrite, unoriginal, don't you think?"

Her own mouth dropped open, and she looked bewildered.

"But then, he _was_ facing the danger of his master plan being unraveled in an instant, right before his eyes, wasn't he? And only one of the two of them could fall off that roof…"

"What… who are you talking about?"

Mycroft lifted his umbrella, gripped the fabric in his right hand. "The man whose description you've been mistaking for Sherlock Holmes, of course. _Jim Moriarty_."

She raised a shaking finger to point at him. "Y-you're on _their_ side, aren't you? The crazy lunatics who think he did actually solve those crimes, that he was a genius!"

He smiled, just a bit. "I don't do _sides_. But beware: I do owe you a debt, and I'm here to repay part of it. First by correcting your mistakes. Even in _your_ wildly absurd world where Sherlock Holmes was a fraud, he still had to have been a genius to have planned those crimes."

"W-What do you mean?"

He ignored her question. "Remember. Those you have hurt have friends in high places." A flick of a hidden switch, and the black nylon canopy fell away, along with the wood covering that was the pole. Mycroft twirled the revealed sword, the handle spinning swiftly through his fingers.

She stared at it. He could easily read the idiotic question behind her eyes.

"Oh, this? About as fake as Sherlock Holmes." He retrieved an apple from a hidden pocket in his jacket. The silver sword swooped in a figure eight as he tossed the apple in the air. It fell to the ground exactly half a meter in front of his feet, cut perfectly in half.

Another hidden switch and the blade fell away, caught by his waiting hand. Now it was just the handle that he tossed in the air, spinning. Kitty cringed away. Maybe she somehow knew what was coming. He raised it and fired at the opposite wall, still staring into her eyes. A crack like thunder rang out, and a small hole appeared in the concrete, in the exact middle of the wall. Raising his eyebrows at the reporter, Mycroft elegantly slid the sword back into place, fitted the umbrella pole over his sword, before smoothly opening and closing the umbrella.

"Go ahead and publish that article about this encounter— I won't mind. Oh, and I'm sure the Chief Superintendent has enough time to reschedule; sorry about that again." She opened and closed her mouth, too shocked to speak. Just as he had said. Goldfish.

"Beware those avenging angels," he said, leaning on his umbrella again.

She eyed it warily. "Avenging wh-who?"

Mycroft was already striding toward the door, gracefully spinning his umbrella on his right hand. He switched it to his left.

"Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson."

**A/N: I'm actually kind of proud of that deduction string, wow. And I'm using the fanon / headcanon / WMG that "Anthea" has short-term memory loss and is a BAMF and that's why Mycroft employs her. **

**So, this is the end, where I ran out of motivation (RE: hatred of Kitty). There was originally meant to be a confrontation between John and Mycroft; I might get back to it someday. In the meantime, I'm quite satisfied with this ending. **

**Thanks for reading. —[GingerBeer]**


End file.
